


life’s largesse, and all-victorious love

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-Coital, rated m for implied sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: James finds himself smiling fondly. How he loves this man, how he treasures every minute he can be at his side.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 40
Kudos: 129





	life’s largesse, and all-victorious love

Francis is watching him. He looks very self satisfied, as well he may, considering how James is still flushed, on his belly, his face half-buried in his pillows, the trembling not quite ebbed out of him yet.

“What?” James rasps, and is surprised at the rough quality of his own voice.

“I was just wondering how you got to be so beautiful,” Francis says with one of his stupid smiles, sweet and mischievous and utterly, utterly charming. James has never known him to smile as much, as frequently, as he does these days, as if they have built themselves a world of pleasure and happiness into which suffering is not permitted to intrude.

They’ve had enough of suffering after all, and James is committed to giving Francis as much happiness and pleasure as he can take.

James scoffs even as he feels a warm glow of appreciation. He has always been weak to flattery, and especially from Francis, who never says anything he does not mean. “Are you trying to woo me, Captain? A little late for that, isn’t it?” Very late, he thinks, considering the slow, warm slide of something between his thighs, doubtless on its way to making a mess of the sheets.

Francis raises an eyebrow and smiles, reaching out to lay his hand on James’ back, slipping it up to the nape of his neck and the sweaty curls of his hair. It’s tangled from their carousing, but Francis brushes his fingers through it gently, teasing out the knots. “Please don’t say you’ve decided on calling me Captain in bed.”

James grins. “Doesn’t it excite you? I’m yours to command.”

This surprises a laugh out of Francis, whose hand leaves James’ hair to slide down his back and squeeze his arse generously, his fingers splayed and kneading. “I rather think it’s the other way around. You’re always ordering me about to suit your whims.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” James replies, lifting his head and rubbing at his eyes with his hand. He can feel the imprint of the pillow’s creases left on his cheek. “Go and get a cloth, will you?”

Francis tuts, but his hand leaves James’ backside and he gets up from the bed. “That’s a prime example.”

James smirks and does not reply, folding his arms under his head so that he might gaze at Francis’ now empty side of the bed, the sheets rumpled and warm, the book still laying open on his bedside table, balance precariously on top of one or two others. Beyond it, the chair over which Francis has neatly slung his clothes, except for his cravat, which James had untied and unwound from his neck and thrown across the room in his excitement.

James supposes he will have to hunt it out later, hoping it has not gone down the back of the chest of drawers. Rooting around awkwardly behind a large piece of furniture is not exactly the dignified end he had in mind for this tryst. That is for later, however, perhaps even tomorrow morning if Francis does not bring it up before then. For now, James has Francis’ full attention, and is quite content to bask in it. He hears the sound of a cloth being dipped into the water of the washbasin and rung out again.

The mattress dips as Francis climbs back onto the bed by James’ feet, leaning forward to–

“Oh Christ, that’s _cold_ , Francis!”

Francis chuckles as he continues his work, wiping himself away from James’ skin. “Freshest ice-melt,” he murmurs, “nothing but the best.”

“Oh, very funny,” James mutters, but as he becomes used to the temperature it becomes quite enjoyable, and he sighs and relaxes again, until Francis deems it funny to lift the cloth and squeeze it, raining droplets of water down onto the sensitive skin of James’ lower back. James yelps and twists, nearly kneeing Francis in the stomach as he does, though he thinks Francis would deserve it. He glares up at Francis’ unrepentant expression. “I will order you out of this room in a minute, how’s that?”

Francis laughs, which does nothing to help James’ frown, but he gets off the mattress to dispose of the cloth somewhere, and then comes back to take his rightful place on the empty half of the bed. They lie on their sides, face to face, and James finds his eyes skipping across the freckles on Francis’ cheeks, his nose. It has been warm of late, the days full of sunshine, and it has brought his freckles out in force.

They make him look younger; his freckles and his blue eyes and his boyish grin take years off him, giving James a glimpse of the young man he used to be, fresh into his twenties and eager to prove himself, to make something of himself in a world inclined to be unwelcoming to someone of his birth. Oh, how different James once thought the two of them to be, how very similar they are in actuality. Francis’ hand comes to rest on James’ hip, sliding into the slight curve of his waist.

“I’d have to obey your order, I suppose,” Francis says softly, “though I’d be very upset about it.”

James smiles. “Of course you would. Having to go back to your own, cold, lonely bedroom for a night. What hardship.”

“It would be,” Francis replies, rubbing at his waist. “I’d perish without you,” he says lightly, but then seems to regret it, and James watches the smile slip off his face.

They are silent for a while, and James lifts his hand to rest against Francis’ cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone. Francis’ eyes close, and James listens to his steady breathing. He wonders what Francis is thinking, what he is trying not to think. He runs his hand back into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp with his nails, the way he knows Francis likes.

“I’d probably join you,” James eventually murmurs. Francis jumps a little, as if he had been half asleep. He turns his head slightly, presses his lips to James’ wrist. “In your bed. I sleep better with you next to me.”

Francis opens one eye, meets James’ steady gaze, and James sees a smile threatening. “I don’t,” he says. “You snore.”

“I do not. Retract that at once.” He tries to look indignant but the sight of Francis smiling again melts away any real offence. He thinks Francis could say anything to him now, and he would not mind.

Francis winds an arm around him, pulling him close. He buries his face in the crook of James’ neck, and James keeps stroking his hair, more grey than gold these days but no less handsome, no less beloved. There is no sound other than the crackle of the fire, the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece, and Francis’ soft exhalations against James’ neck.

James thinks back to when they had been hauling, lost under an infinite sky and upon an infinite field of shale, to how he had dreamt of exactly this – Francis in his arms, no secrets between them, with a love that was easy and sure and so very much alive. Back then James had wanted it without ever having had it before, without knowing what it was like; his years of hurried fumblings and furtive liaisons in darkened alleys had brooked no opportunity for romance, for prolonged tenderness. But he had imagined it, and he had imagined it with Francis, and he had wanted it. A comfort to him, when he thought himself close to dying, a pleasant image to fill his head, even as he accepted it as an impossibility. An impossibility that they should come home, and live out his dreams – and yet.

James squeezes Francis tighter, feels him huff a laugh against his neck. Francis tilts his head and a kiss is pressed to James’ jaw, and then his ear, and his hand slides back down to rest on James’ backside again, where it so loves to be.

“Do I really order you around so much?” James asks into the comfortable silence of the room.

“Certainly,” Francis says, leaning back to fix him a look, eyebrow raised. “You’re spoilt.” Then, as though to mitigate this, he kisses him. “You know I like it, though.”

James thinks he _does_ know this, knows that Francis revels in every opportunity to please and satiate and adore. He is eager to worship, as if James’ body is an altar before which Francis will happily prostrate himself.

James has no complaints about this.

“If I am spoilt, it’s you who’s done it.”

“Mm,” Francis agrees, “I bloody well hope so.” He squeezes James’ arse to the point that it almost hurts. “No one else could do it so well.”

James laughs at this and Francis watches him, flushed and seeming pleased to have incited such a reaction.

“Or as thoroughly,” James agrees, kissing his forehead, shifting forwards to press as close to Francis as he might, and he doesn’t miss the slight catching of his breath. “No one does it like you.”

“Good,” Francis murmurs, kissing his shoulder. “Good. Jesus.”

James can feel the stirrings of Francis’ interest again, and he feels inclined to help it along. The night is young. “I suppose I am spoilt. You treat me so well, give me everything I want. I’m quite ruined for anyone else – not that anyone else will get a look in, of course. And aren’t I lucky to have a man with such an attentive mouth, and lovely strong hands, and such a big–”

“Alright, enough of that,” Francis cuts in, never having taken easily to flattery, no matter how sincere. James is always sincere in his appreciation of Francis, despite Francis’ reluctance to accept that he could ever be worthy of praise. Francis is lovely, though, he is strong and masculine and handsome. He is _beautiful_ , and James tells him this as often as he might. He will tell him this until he believes it himself.

“...A big cock, I was going to say,” James finishes mildly. Francis tuts and shoves him lightly, which is enough provocation for James to sling his leg over his waist, rolling Francis enough so that he is sat astride his hips, a hand either side of Francis’ head. “Don’t act the prude, it doesn’t suit you.”

Despite his apparent embarrassment, Francis grins up at him, pressing the palms of his hands to James’ waist, his hips rolling upwards slightly in search of some pleasant friction. James finds himself smiling back fondly. How he loves this man, how he treasures every minute he can be at his side. How he wants to take him into his body and bring him bliss. He lifts a hand to smooth Francis’ hair back from his forehead.

“Dear man,” he murmurs softly. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You’ve always been a clever one,” Francis replies, running his hands up and down James’ sides, making him shiver. “I’m sure you can figure something out.”

Yes, James thinks as he leans down to kiss him, he certainly can.

**Author's Note:**

> My first M rated fic - and nothing happens. One day I'll work up the nerve to write a bit of action, but today is not that day. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> Title is taken from a Paul Verlaine poem called Moonlight.
> 
> find me at norvegiae.tumblr.com


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